


The Midnight Hour

by Ellie214



Category: Heer Halewijn (Traditional Ballad), Webtoon - Fandom, house of stars
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Engagement, Magic, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26655304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellie214/pseuds/Ellie214
Summary: A take on the character of Herr Halewijn (inspired by Webtoon's House of Stars) and his fairytale along with original characters inspired by various fantasy novels.





	1. Ballrooms, Ballgowns, and Dancing

The gilded invitation sat lonely on Princess Cyra’s desk, shining in the mid-evening sun.

She shuddered in disgust at the thought of having to dress up in a stuffy dress, slap a smile on her face, and pretend to enjoy the mingling, cavorting, and revelry of another party. One party a year stood to be her limit; the annual Yul festivities gave her enough merriment for a thousand lifetimes. “Your Highness,” her lady-in-waiting, Mirabel, stood behind Cyra, brushing her chestnut hair absentmindedly. “The invitation is from Princess Clara.” Mirabel waited for some form of acknowledgment of the name Clara; some sign that she recalled the face associated with the name. 

“Who?” ‘Clara’ didn’t ring any bells. Cyra turned her head to look at Mirabel in the mirror, her amber eyes meeting her reflection. Mirabel paused, unsure if she was joking or not. When Cyra just stared at the pale woman, Mirabel continued. 

“Princess Clara; she lives in the North of the city. She was the Maid of Honor at Princess Odette’s wedding last season...?” An image of the swollen Princess Odette played through her mind; the white dress completely engulfing her figure as she walked down the aisle. A faint memory of a tall, stick-thin brunette behind her took hold, and Cyra nodded slowly. She didn’t remember much of that wedding (her gown had been absolutely uncomfortable). Still, she did remember the stark contrast between the two women. 

“Ah, yes. Tall, skinny, brunette. Wide eyes.”

“Yes, this invitation is for her engagement party to a Prince Adam from the West. She’s invited many royal families to this event... You should consider attending this one! If... even for an hour.” Cyra looked at the red-head with a deadpan expression. One whole hour would be a lifetime. But Cyra looked to Mirabel and saw the sparkling look in her eyes: she desperately wanted to go. 

Cyra sighed, letting her head fall sideways into her hand. “An hour couldn’t kill us. I’ll go. But you’re the only lady going with me.” Mirabel brightened immediately, smiling widely. 

“Truly, Your Highness, it will be worth your while.” 

**_~~~~~~~_ **

“Ugh.” The feeling of pinching inside Cyra’s shoes began before she even exited the carriage and stepped onto the cobblestones. Mirabel noted her discomfort and helped her out of the carriage once they arrived. Cyra wobbled to the carpet that existed explicitly for this issue. “I should be permitted to take my shoes off.”

“Not here!” Mirabel gasped, alert to the necessity for decorum. Cyra brushed her hands down her gold and mockingbird blue damask gown, smoothing out invisible wrinkles as she stepped down on the steps’ intermediate landing area. If only she could stand here for the rest of the night…

Mirabel descended before her, her red curls bouncing as she stepped down. This provided a beautiful contrast to the ivy green hand-me-down dress Cyra had allowed her to have. Sapping on a smile and slowly taking the steps, Cyra met her royal counterparts below, faking excitement and joy. Mirabel wandered off to mingle with the other ladies-in-waiting as expected. However, it still didn’t make Cyra feel any more comfortable. 

“You came!” Princess Clara burst through the gathered crowd, her wine red gown sweeping the floor behind her. The woman had a glass in one hand and the other - the ring hand - extended out for a hug. Clara pulled her in close, the scent of white musk enveloping the air around them, and whispered, “I didn’t think you enjoyed parties, little Cyra.” Cyra pulled back, half-amused, and replied, 

“I wouldn’t miss your engagement for the world, Clara!” This did little to phase the Princess, who waved over a tall man with floppy blonde hair. His outfit was almost akin to a jester’s attire, with bright colors and too-tight pants. Cyra held back a laugh as Clara introduced her fiance. 

“Adam, this is Princess Cyra.” Cyra smiled at him, tipping her head slightly. 

“Lovely to meet you.” Prince Adam was also pretending to care, his flute empty of champagne. Poor fellow.

“She’s Princess of the Eastern Coastal Frame. Her mother and father sit on the High Council.” 

“Ah!” Adam turned sharply to her, his eyes alight. The mention of the prestigious High Council caught his attention, as it did with anyone and everyone who knew her. “Your parents are part of the five royals that make up the High Council? Have you… have you ever met High King Omar?” Adam got closer to her with his last question, his eyes searching hers. It took all Cyra had in her not to roll her eyes at the sound of that name. 

“I have. Omar is the head of the Council, after all.” She muttered dryly, picking at her sleeve. High King Omar was not a subject she intended to discuss. Clara noticed the sudden discomfort and placed a hand on Adam’s arm, turning his attention back to her.

“We are glad you’re with us, Cyra. Please, go have some refreshments. I’m sure the dancing will begin shortly.” Cyra took her leave quickly, making a beeline to the tables of food and drink. Boredom ensued as it always did at these pointless functions. With very few people she knew and dancing out of the question, Cyra ventured into the massive garden alone. She held a cup of tea close to her as she made her escape to the fresh air. 

The lush grass surrounding the entire garden encouraged her to ditch her painful shoes, and she unlaced them before leaving them behind to search for somewhere to sit. Relief washed over her as she traveled through the cold grass, sipping her tea and admiring the beautiful foliage and horticulture that lined the path to a lone bench underneath a tree. Moonlight shone down on the large open area in front of it and lighted the various colored orchids surrounding the courtyard. Cyra sighed as she placed her teacup in her lap and looked up at the moon. Her eyes drifted closed, the stillness of the moment overtaking her while the night breeze drifted by her ears, caressing her warm cheeks and cooling the heat in her dress. With the relief came another sigh, and with the sigh, she leaned back into the bench.

“Boring, isn’t it?” 

Cyra jolted upright, sending the teacup clattering to the ground. The person who startled her came closer, and her eyes landed on the tall figure of a man she did not know. Squinting her eyes, she opened her mouth to offer a rebuke, but he stepped into the moonlight, his golden eyes stealing the breath out of her lungs.

“Omar.” 

Fear pooled hastily in her belly. What was he doing at a lower royal’s function? 

“No, no.” The man quickly interrupted her thoughts, laughing a little. “Though you are not the first tonight to mistake me for him.” He took a few steps toward her, thought Cyra still felt apprehensive. “You can call me Hal.” 

“You look just like King Omar. Are you his…”

“I am related to him, yes.” The man grinned sheepishly. He had dark brown skin and a full beard; his features were sharp, yet his eyes soft and curious. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to startle you.” He added, changing the subject. 

“No, it’s quite alright.” Cyra looked down to the teacup deposited in the grass, leaning down to get it. Hal bent down to pick it up for her, placing it in her outstretched hand. 

“You didn’t last long in there…” He started, looking up at her sweetly. “You must not like parties.” The resemblance between him and the High King was absolutely astounding. Perhaps he was his brother… that would explain the similarity. Cyra did not realize he had spoken during the middle of her wonderings, looking up at the straightened man only when he hummed in question. 

“My apologies; I was lost in thought.” 

“I simply inquired about your identity. You are surely not related to the bride-to-be.” 

“Not by any stretch of the imagination. I’m Cyra. My mother and father a King Ekbert and Queen Bilka.”

“Eastern Coast… Your family--” 

“-- is on the High Council. Yes.” She interrupted. Hal gave her a half-smile and shook his head. 

“Not my first thought. I was going to say that your father is the great-great-grandson of High King Duchaine the Third.” Cyra paused, unaware that anyone but her knew this fact about her family. 

“Yes, he is.” 

“Well, I am honored to be in your presence. It is not often that I meet someone with such a charismatic leader in their lineage.”

“The stories are inspiring.” Cyra agreed but refrained from telling Hal any sliver of the truth about Duchaine. That was a best-kept secret among her family - maybe even  _ the _ best-kept secret. Hal moved to sit next to her, and she obliged by scooting over while gathering her skirts. In the light, his laurel crown and cream-colored attire (the edges of his tunic were covered in golden stitched laurels) made him alluring, god-like, even. He looked upward, letting his breath go, the visible puff of air drifting into the night. The handsome nobleman then spoke gently.

“It has been quite some time since I’ve spent a night hiding from a party. But, as it were, I don’t get invited to many.” 

“You must not enjoy them.” 

“I’m afraid not.” He looked down at her, smiling yet again. Cyra felt utterly charmed and enveloped by it, his eyes crinkling at the edges like they were old friends. How many women had he delighted with that smile? “I envy the gardeners. They have such a lovely job.” Hal changed the subject, looking out into the garden. “Do you ever wish you were a gardener?” 

“At times, I think it would be a wonderful profession. Nothing to care for but yourself and the flowers... No parties. No thrones. No successions. No pinching shoes.” Hal let out a sharp laugh, lifting up his feet to show his own shoes: Persian boots. 

“These things are terrors to wear. I can only imagine how much worse women’s shoes are...” He shucked off his shoes, placing his bare feet in the grass. She lifted up her feet from beneath her skirts and showed her own bare feet. They both laughed again, wigging their toes in the grass. “You’re enthralling... I am inquisitive about you. You must be engaged to a kind suitor. Or at least have quite a few.” He looked at Cyra quizzically, expecting some form of assent. 

But memories of her previous engagement flashed before her, the failure of such never leaving her mind. 

“No one. Engagement isn’t something I’m currently seeking. I’m working towards inheriting the kingdom and taking my parent’s place on the High Council.” 

“Marriage isn’t on your mind at all?” Hal leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. 

“No.” Cyra lied. “Is marriage on  _ your _ mind?” Hal looked to his hands suddenly. Cyra sensed a story behind his changed gaze; he wouldn’t answer her, letting a pause hang in the air. 

“I think about it all the time.” 


	2. The Stag

It was then that Mirabel emerged from the party, red hair frizzy and dress ruffled just the same. 

“Princess?” She cried breathlessly. “Princess?!” She held onto the “e” that time, taking her pitch up before it landed back down in a lower pitch. Mirabel had Cyra’s discarded shoes in her right hand, dangling by the laces. When she spotted the shoeless royals, she stopped and huffed a sigh of relief. “I have searched for you everywhere! It has been an hour, as promised. Are you…” Mirabel trailed off as she caught the visage of Hal, barely lit by the torches behind her, but fully present in the moonlight. Cyra looked over to Hal, who looked at Mirabel with a blank expression on his face, one of unrecognition. Suddenly, Mirabel shook her head and bowed low. “High King, I had no idea you were here with us. Your presence is--” Hal stood quickly, hands up to stop her. 

“No, no. I’m not Omar.” He looked over to Cyra briefly before turning back to Mirabel. “I’m not Omar.” He repeated when she didn’t rise. Mirabel looked up at Cyra slowly, her fear unmasked but slowly fading away.

“Are you ready to leave, Princess?” Cyra and Hal made eye contact, pausing in the midnight air to take stock of their conversation. 

_ “I think about it all the time.”  _

Cyra rose, standing next to Hal, their hands nearly brushing. 

“Yes. I am ready.”

“Let me walk you to your carriage.” Hal offered, slipping his shoes back on. Mirabel was already making her way back to the party, and thus, the carriage. They walked in silence until they reached the party again. Hal extended his arm for her to take, and she obliged, still barefoot.

It appeared that Hal had not really made his rounds through the party, as everyone who saw them began whispering amongst themselves.  _ Is that Omar? What was the High King doing with the Eastern Coastal Court in tow? Where was his wife?  _ Cyra made no move to address any rumors or ease any fears. Let them talk. 

They ascended the stairs, not bothering to say goodnight to the hostess or host. As they neared closer to the end of the carpet - where Mirabel waited with her shoes - Cyra loosed her grip on Hal’s arm. Placing her slippers back on, she took one last long look at Hal, whose smile reached his eyes. He helped her into the carriage, behind Mirabel, before hanging onto the opened carriage door.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness.” Cyra smiled back at him, feeling her cheeks warm up. She thanked the gods that her skin was a deep cider color that didn’t betray her flushed cheeks and replied softly,

“The pleasure is all mine, Lord Hal.” Hal winked at her and stepped back, closing the door before the carriage lurched forward. 

“Lord Hal…” Mirabel whispered beside her, searching her mind for any sliver of information that could identify him further. “Such a handsome face with impeccable manners.” She noted, resting her chin on her propped up fist. “He must not be around Omar that much.” Cyra flinched at the observation but kept quiet. No, he wasn’t like Omar in any way. His words were kind and his nature inquisitive, not accusatory or investigative. Mirabel glanced away from the window to Cyra’s face, drawn and pensive. 

“Would you ever consider taking  _ his  _ hand in marriage? I’m sure it would be better than--” Mirabel cut herself off, aware she was treading on thin ice with the comments she made already. “I’m sure you would find some happiness with him.” She finally murmured, proceeding to look out of the carriage window at the passing darkness. 

** ~~~~~~ **

Cyra sat in the window of her bedroom, looking out into the expansive gardens below while fiddling with the ends of her curly hair. 

The engagement party replayed itself in the back of her mind as she dressed that morning, choosing a simple Prussian blue gown with embroidered lotus flowers dancing up the right side and sleeves. It had been two weeks, but not a single piece of gossip had floated her way about the mystery Lord Hal seemed to be. Perhaps he had simply been a figment of her imagination... But when she discussed it with Mirabel - who held out hope that he would send some form of correspondence - she knew she hadn’t been dreaming or hallucinating. 

So why was he so hard to pin down? 

The door to her chambers opened with haste, a hallmark of either Mirabel or her mother, Surta, entering the room. No one else dared to forget to knock. Surta - who was her mother’s own lady-in-waiting - burst through, her black and silver hair pinned behind her ears and scooped into a bun. The woman swiftly bowed, her pale skin glowing in the sunlight, before sputtering. 

“Your mother and father have received news of a visitor coming to the palace within the hour.” 

“Unannounced from the border?” Cyra stood, dropping her hands by her sides. No one came through the borders without her parents knowing of it. 

“It appears so. The visitor has been in the East for quite some time. This is his first time to visit the palace, however.” Cyra didn’t know how to respond to this news. She followed the woman to the throne room, where her mother and father sat. They whispered amongst themselves, Queen Bilka’s long brown hair cascading around her face and shielding her words from perception. Her father, King Ekbert, sat with his face turned to the door, as if the stranger would waltz through it at any moment. 

“A visitor?” Cyra started, approaching her parents quickly. Her mother turned her soft chestnut eyes towards her, brows raised.

“Yes. The visitor is coming forthwith; Wyndemere says he made it through the outer city with little difficulty.” The mention of the Royal Guard’s white-haired leader eased her concern, but not by a lot. If he had breezed through the outer city, he was less than half an hour away. 

“Has he stopped to announce who he is?” Cyra inquired further, fiddling with her fingernails. 

“No.” Her father spoke softly, still looking to the door behind her. Who was this man, and why had he come with no announcement? At that moment, Wyndemere pushed through the back chamber door, flanked by his twin brother, Alorha. The two white-haired men strode in confidently, covered head to toe in all black - from their boots to their doublets. The twins bowed before the family, eyes cast low. Her mother ta-ta-ta’d and waved her hand, dismissing them from their prostrations, eager to hear their discovery. 

Alorha spoke first, his voice deep as he trained his black eyes on the Queen and King. “We have heard he is coming with gifts, Your Majesties. He rides a stag into the kingdom.”

“A stag…” Her father mused, perhaps coming to some sort of conclusion but not voicing it aloud. 

“He does not travel light, either. I witnessed firsthand the guards, the trunks, the carts. He is either bringing his entire wealth with him or bringing a  _ large _ sum of gifts to give your court.” Wyndemere added, seemingly uncomfortable with the idea of the number of gifts possibly arriving. The breath hitched in all of the royal’s throats.  _ What did this man want? Bringing patronage and unannounced, at that?  _

They didn’t have to wait long for their answer. 

Cyra rushed to take her place behind the thrones as the commotion in the hallways grew louder. The din reached an apex as the doors to the throne room opened, and the golden glow of the sun flooded in. 

Cyra stood stock still as a host of guards walked in, armed lightly. This was a peaceful visit. The guards, dressed in white and gold, were almost identical down to the details on their high-knee boots, little gold leaves dancing along the tops of the shafts. At each of their sides, jeweled sabers hung from a strap attached to their hips, and they wor the same neutral expression on their faces. She counted ten of them, five in two pin-straight lines. Each pair took the time to bow before drifting off to the far right side, lining up against the windows neatly. 

The next group to come before the royals were two sets of young men, each holding a chest. One by one, the men opened each trunk and then turned it to the family to observe. Raw, uncut gems. Fine silks and fabrics. Another chest held rare spices. The final chest… the last chest contained large round cylinders, all capped at both ends with jeweled onion domes. Cyra frowned. The mystery of the cylinders overshadowed the glamour of the other gifts, but that quickly faded into the back of her mind as the famed visitor swept into the throne room, dressed head to toe in gold and white. 

“Presenting His Highness, High Prince Halewijn.” The guards straightened up, the young men bowed, and the other gathered court members followed their example. Only Cyra, Bilka, and Ekbert remained unmoving. When the stranger came into the light, her knees began to shake under her dress.  _ Lord Hal  _ strode into the room, head held high and golden eyes bright. Her mother and father inhaled together, taken by the visage of Halewijn, just as Cyra had been two weeks before. 

“Prince Halewijn, it is such a pleasure to have you here in our court. Why did you not forewarn us of your arrival?” King Ekbert mused aloud, confused and yet, amused. 

“I did not want you all to go to the trouble of putting a feast or a ball together. I simply want to be able to see my godparents again.” At this, Bilka smiled widely.  _ Godparents?!  _

Cyra looked from her parents to examine Halewijn again, the High Prince shining like a star in the middle of the night sky. Did this man command the sun that it should shine around him in such a way? He caught her eyes as soon as she finished the thought and smiled sweetly at her. 

“Your Highness.” He bowed low, sweeping his hand from the crown of the head to the tops of his feet and then to his waist, where he held himself for a moment before straightening back up. Cyra stiffened at the sight of him performing one of the most intimate bows she knew of: a Lover’s Embrace. It didn’t escape her mother or father’s notice either, drawing their eyes from the High Prince’s performance to the Princess’s reddened face. Halewijn met her eyes again, winking this time. Cyra swallowed hard, past the lump in her throat that prevented her from speaking and addressing the man. 

Suddenly, the truth hit her. “High Prince” was not a designation for a lowly Lord. The gifts and the mystery behind the visitor overshadowed the title. But now that the truth - plainly displayed like a natural jewel in the sunlight - was out in the open, embarrassment crept into her expression. The man who stood before her reigned, not as a simple lord of lands, but as High King Omar’s son. 

“Halewijn, my dear, what have you come for?” Bilka wondered, resting her tiny index finger on a golden brown temple.

A stag. 

Gifts.

The Bow of a Lover’s Embrace. 

The sound of her own heartbeat flooded her ears as he spoke, but she didn’t need to hear his words to understand what he wanted. 

“Godmother, Godfather… I have come not  _ only _ to visit your lands but…” He paused, now looking to Cyra with an intensity she had never seen in his eyes. “I came to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.” 


	3. An Arrangement

The folds of Cyra’s dress concealed her shaking hands as she briskly walked out of the throne room, letting her mother and father speak about the proposal alone. Halewijn followed behind her, rushing to her side when the doors to the place closed. 

“Your Highness,” He began, but Cyra wouldn’t turn to meet him. “Your Highness.” He repeated earnestly. Cyra took the opportunity to stop, fix her face, and turn about. She had to know. 

“You came here to make a fool of yourself, didn’t you?” Cyra questioned, recalling their previous conversation. 

“What do you mean?” 

“In the garden, I spoke to you of engagements and marriage. Did you not hear what I said?” Halewijn looked in her eyes, the intensity returning. 

“I heard every word.” His voice dropped an octave, almost a low growl. 

“Did you not believe me, then?” Cyra placed her hands on her hips to steady the shaking, hoping he wouldn’t mistake the gesture for playfulness. 

“I believed you. That’s why I am here.” A realization dawned on her, something she could not ignore. But Halewijn spoke it before she could. “You want to run your country well, and I admire that about you. You are unattached; so am I. I have a kingdom I will run soon enough. Cyra, this is purely political.” The statements were correct. Two very powerful and unattached royals with similar goals… Political paradise. 

“You concealed your identity from me.” She hissed back, furious. “Had you told me that you were the son of Omar, I would’ve -” 

“I am not in any way like that man.”  _ That man…  _ Cyra flinched at the words, examining his face for any sign of falsehood. “Whatever affliction he bestowed upon you and your family has nothing to do with me.” The forcefulness of his speech convinced her of his innocence. He drew closer, holding a hand out as if to touch her arm. “I do not hold any ill will against you. You could say that by proposing this merging, I am looking out for you in ways you could not imagine.” 

No doubt her parents were coming to the same conclusions inside the throne room. Slowly, he took her shaking hand and smiled at her warmly. “Who knows,” he began, bringing her fingers up to his lips and kissing them. “You might even fall in love with me.” 

**~~~**

_ “He said that?!”  _ The brush Mirabel held in her hand dropped to the carpet, her mouth agape. 

“He did.” She slowly stooped down to pick it up, then murmured,

“What did you say?” 

“I snatched my hand away and walked off to find you.” The lady-in-waiting tossed her head back and laughed, hands at her chest. 

“His shock must’ve been visible!” Mirabel cackled, wiping tears from her eyes. “My gods, he might not be so charming at dinner…” Cyra turned from her desk to face the woman. 

“Dinner?” It was her understanding that there was no welcome for him in the palace; he was simply passing through. 

“He’s staying in the palace while he remains in the East; at the behest of the Queen.” 

_ “Here?!”  _ Cyre forced herself to inhale deeply. The thought of Halewijn staying in the palace for any amount of time made her corset feel tight. Handsome as he may be, he was not above being anything less than opportunistic. The image of her in a drunken stupor, sitting upon his lap, flashed in her mind. The reality of that image replaced Halewijn’s face with Omar’s. Mirabel sensed the discomfort radiating from her mistress as she stood next to her. Cyra’s gaze dropped to the book on the table, it’s words becoming blurry and shapeless. 

“Your Highness… You should tell someone about what happened with King Omar.” 

“No.” Cyra snapped, looking out of the window suddenly. She could not cry, not in front of anyone. The memories of that night bothered her, but not to the point of tears. “There’s no use. It happened too long ago.” The lie hung between them - it had only been a year - but it did not matter. Neither of them would do anything; Mirabel wouldn’t speak without Cyra’s permission, and Cyra wouldn’t tell… ever. The incurable silence was broken by the opening of the chamber door. Surta walked in - again, without knocking - and curtsied lightly. 

“Your Highness, the High Prince.” 

Cyra stood suddenly, knocking the table over, and with it, the ink and quill. Mirabel hurried to tidy the mess, allowing Cyra to watch Halewijn stroll in boldly. 

“These are my chambers, High Prince. You should not be on this side of the hall.” 

“I came only to bring you what is yours.” He had a youth deposit a chest on her floor and open it. Inside lay the jeweled cylinders, and she took her time walking over to the opened box. Hal held his hand out in permission to take one, and she did, screwing open one end. 

Inside sat a parchment, rolled up neatly. She pulled it out and opened it, letting the end fall against her skirts. She wasn’t three words in when she realized what it was.

“These are deeds to land in the South...” Cyra murmured, confused. 

“Not only that.” Halewijn picked up another cylinder, unscrewing it. He dumped out a vial of oil, the scent hitting her nostrils immediately. “Jasmin fragrance.” Another cylinder. “Frankincense.” Five to go. “Land in the West.” Four. “The title to four castles in the same region.” Three. “A host of sentries, each named here.” Two. “A ruby anklet from the city of Myrrhna.” One.

“Stop!” Cyra yelled, and Hal held the last cylinder in his hands, the lid barely touched. “Stop…” Overwhelmed, she didn’t want to know what the final gift was. “Why all of this?” She pleaded, turmoil racking her skull. “You don’t need to flatter me with anything. Some women will marry you for less.”

“You are not the kind of partner that deserves less than this.” 

“Why  _ me _ ?” Halewijn looked around him, sensing the stares of the servants. Cyra waved Surta and Mirabel off, who pouted but promised to be posted at the door if something were to go wrong. When the door clicked shut, Halewijn turned to her. 

“My father has wronged your family in some way.” 

“Who has he  _ not _ abused on his rise to power?” 

“No, worse than that. Some way, a way you know of. Personally.” Halewijn gripped her shoulders, tightly enough to make her gasp, but not enough to hurt her. “I need to right this wrong.” 

“Does your father send his sons to do his dirty work?” Cyra griped, staring at Halewijn intensely. 

“The gods sent me here. I never knew of you until we came across each other in the garden. But then I knew that they had sent you to me for a reason.” 

“Then why did the gods not tell  _ me? _ ” 

“You came to the party, didn’t you? Despite not wanting to go…?”

“I went for my lady-in-waiting, so she could enjoy herself. Not for any other reason.” Halewijn barked a laugh, letting go of her shoulders. 

“And who influenced your lady to go?” Cyra released her brows from their frown. Mirabel didn’t really even like parties, come to think of it. She chose her as her lady-in-waiting over her sisters because of that fact… Cyra scowled at him again anyways. 

“She is a being of free will and is not influenced by some movement of… beings above.” Halewijn lifted his eyebrows at her curt dismissal of the gods,  _ her _ gods, and _ his _ gods. “Do you speak to them yourself? Are you a High Priest as well?” The shadow that clouded Halewijn’s expression made Cyra step back, his golden eyes darkening ever so slightly. 

“I was discarded from my father’s court at the age of ten due to my mother’s… death. On the way to the North, I found the gods while sitting under a palm tree in the desert. I am no High Priest… but I know the gods, and they know me.” With that, he gently sat the final scroll in her hand and exited quietly, sealing his lips. 

**~~~~~**

Cyra took her dinner in her room, allowing herself to avoid Halewijn for a night. When she heard a knock on her door, she knew it wasn’t the ladies but one of her parents.

“It’s open.” She called out, and the door squeaked open slowly. Her mother floated in, her goddess-like face framed by a few curls that stuck out of her braid. The houppelande she wore drug across the floor, sweeping the carpet with its fur. The doors shut again, leaving the velvet-clad queen and her daughter alone. 

“Prince Halewijn wants your hand in marriage.” The Queen reiterated, clasping her hands together. “But you must agree to it in order for anything to go forward.” Cyra set aside her drinking glass full of water, blinking at her mother. 

“Perhaps if the  _ High Prince  _ had bothered to ask me before proposing in front of you, he might have saved himself some embarrassment. I will not marry him.”

“You will.” Her mother began, sighing deeply. “You will or I will forge your signature on the marriage certificate myself.” Horror shot through her veins as she realized her mother was giving her no option.

“Mother…”

“Cyra, our empire is weakening. When Halewijn becomes High King, you will need to bolster our coast with everything you have, or it will collapse under you.”  _ The empire was weakening? _

“But, mother --” 

“You will marry him in the springtime around Ostara.” Cyra stood in outrage, the holiday her favorite among the major eight.

“You would choose  _ Ostara  _ for my wedding day?” She spat. “Do you want me to be miserable?!” The slap that came after was not entirely unexpected. 

“The gods have smiled upon you in finding you a worthy match, and _ this _ is how you thank them? Cyra, if a High Prince had come to seek my hand in marriage, I would’ve stripped naked in the temple and danced until I could no longer feel my feet!” Her mother’s temper subsided and she exhaled, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her fingers. “You have been blessed, Cyra. More than you - or I - possibly realize.” Cyra gripped her stinging cheek silently as her mother exited. Before the door closed, the Queen whispered, “I will see you tomorrow at breakfast.” 


End file.
